Hellsborough Exposed — pip-observations

Something came up out of the trees behind Worral with a wing a foot and a half long, shrieked like a banshee, and was gone before I could get a proper look: white with brown speckling, far too big for a hoverwing, the wrong colouring for a ripperwing, and hunting rather than scavenging, which rules out everything sensible. I went back and stared at that spot for hours and saw nothing further, which did wonders for my confidence in my own sanity. Call it the giant raptor of Worral for now; there must be other witnesses, and I would very much like to hear from one.

You are a crosslander with enough sense to lie still in cold heather for forty minutes. This is, in Hellsborough, a marketable skill.

Every jellyhead I have asked about their career appears to hate themselves, which is interesting given that most of them are very good at acquiring chits. Since crossing over, I have stopped worrying about results, stopped projecting into a future I cannot control, and started living in the moment — which is considerably easier when the moment involves Hellsborough rather than the off-world. The Exacid might be knocking on the door tomorrow, which focuses the mind wonderfully.